


Seven Times

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven times Sherlock tore off John's clothes and two times John returned the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Times

The first time was at the pool and Sherlock couldn’t shut up.

“John, John, John, John.”

Finally safe against the cool tile and the changing stall, John couldn’t help but make the obvious joke:

“People will talk.”

The coat, laden with its deadly bundles, lay inert in the shadows.

And of course that was when all hell broke loose.

* * *

Exactly thirty-eight minutes later and Sherlock still couldn’t shut up. John rather wished he would.

“Standard L96A1, the current sniper rifle of the Army, not unlike the Green Thing from years past,” he muttered, tearing off John’s shirt, water dripping from his hair.

“Nrgh,” John replied intelligently.

“Too bad,” Sherlock continued, applying pressure to the wound with the remains of the shirt and bits of bundled-up cardigan, “it wasn’t an AK-47; you’d have a matched set.” He scrabbled for his mobile, miraculously free of dings, dents, and water. Naturally.

The room began to go black and fizzy.

“How did you know?” he asked.

John didn’t need to be seeing clearly to know that he had just received Withering Look Number Four.

“Soviet-era AK-47: cheap, plentiful in Afghanistan, even now, and the preferred firearm of the Taliban insurgent.”

“I thought you only read the crime section of the paper.” John groaned as the room started to spin and his shoulder became unbearably hot.

“Mycroft’s always wittering at me about ‘intel’, attempting to solicit my aid.” Sherlock’s voice sounded a long way away. “He sounds distressingly _American_.”

* * *

Arriving home from the hospital, all John had wanted was a bath. A real bath. Not of the sponge variety and not a cold hospital shower, either.

The buttons on the shirt weren’t too difficult, but the vest was a problem. The uninjured side was fine, but every time he tried to pull it off, he stopped with a grunt at the white-hot pain.

“Fuck,” he muttered, kicking his trousers away.

“Problem?” Sherlock. Of course. At least it wasn’t Mrs Hudson to witness him twisting about in half his vest and pants.

“Bloody vest.” John gritted his teeth.

“Let me.”

Hands more gentle than he'd have expected (don’t think about where those hands have been) pulled the vest off… a warm breath of air on the injured shoulder.

“There.”

“You’re making a habit of this.” John observed.

Sherlock winked.

“Don’t get shot, then.”

* * *

“I’m late.”

“John, look at this.”

“Sherlock, I’m leaving. Dr Rout is going to be annoyed, and it’s not good to annoy an Army psychologist.”

“Sit down and look!”

Sherlock catapulted his lean frame over the chair and yanked John’s coat off of his shoulders. Pinned by his own sleeves, John allowed himself to be steered to the armchair.

Dr Rout could wait.

* * *

“No, I’m not going to let you have these, you’re going to make yourself sick.”

“John, _please_!”

“No!”

“John!”

Sherlock lunged at him, pulling at his trousers. John spun away and Sherlock went flying over the armchair and landed with a thud and undignified, “Fuck.”

“John!” Sherlock scrambled up and grasped again for the waistband, nearly pulling his trousers off. There was the sound of fabric tearing and the packet of nicotine patches fell between them.

John stomped away, pulling up the trousers and refusing to look at the disheveled man crouched on the floor.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, panting.

John sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing at the pain in his still-tender shoulder.

“No,” John said. “It’s… oh, I give up.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Knew you’d see it my way.”

* * *

All of John’s nightmares are about water now.

The two men thrashing in the river as the tide changed, too much movement to obtain a clear shot.

Strangled shouts.

Sirens in the distance.

Sherlock’s head disappearing beneath the dark water.

Close enough. Squeeze the trigger; never, ever pull it.

Spray, blood, and a dark head bobbing above the surface.

The crunch of gravel, running footsteps.

Lestrade’s panting exclamations.

John shucks his coat off, wading into the river, helping Sherlock stumble up the bank.

They collapse into a heap, John pushes the other man up, pulling at the wet clothing, wrapping him in his dry coat, holding him, hands busy, searching for injuries.

His hand comes away bloody from Sherlock’s side.

“A scratch,” Sherlock pants.

Lestrade looks at them and shakes his head.

“More paperwork to clear up this mess, I ought to start charging you two,” is all he says as he helps them to their feet and to the waiting cars.

* * *

“You don’t have to do this, John.”

“Actually, I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes are shut tightly and John unbuttons the shirt, pressing his lips to exposed skin with every button.

The shirt falls to the floor and the moan from Sherlock makes John catch his breath. It is almost too much for him to bear.

“Do you want me to do this?” John asks, hands on the waistband of the other man’s trousers.

“God, yes,” Sherlock whispers. “John, John, John.”

Sherlock never shuts up, but this time, John doesn’t mind one bit.

“Show me,” John says.

There are no more words.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Special thanks to Bluestocking79 and AnnieTalbot for their beta-fu!


End file.
